


Life Upon the Wicked Stage Ain't Never What a Girl Supposes

by darthsydious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is an actress, F/M, Mycroft is also besotted, Mycroft puts his foot in his mouth, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29814246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthsydious/pseuds/darthsydious
Summary: Anthea ran away from home at the age of twenty-one to become an actress on the west-end. Whatever is she to think when some gentleman pushes into her dressing room! Mycroft isn't good at sharing his feelings.
Relationships: mythea - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Life Upon the Wicked Stage Ain't Never What a Girl Supposes

Anthea Whittaker was from a well-to-do family, terribly high up in society, terribly rich, and terribly traditional. Anthea, had she done as her parents asked, would be long married off by now, most likely a mother, and without a care in the world. Anthea could not bear the thought of being shut away from life, born only to a life of having children, doting on a husband who would not love her and wait for calling hours to bring the next new dull visitor. So at twenty-one, having escaped each suitor her parents threw at her, she ran away one night, off to London, to the West End. She’d always possessed some talent for acting, and joined a small theater company. Her talent grew with each role she auditioned for until now, nearing thirty, she was one of the best actresses on the West End. The scandal to her family was dreadful, not that she particularly cared. They had not cared very much for her aversion to arranged marriages, of being forced into matrimony for anything less than an equal, loving, relationship. Naturally, her father had come and found her as soon as word got out his only daughter was an actress on the West End. He was sure she did not know the reputation actresses had, sure that she would fall into some dreadful scandal.

_“Do you really want to end up like Sarah Bernhardt?” He’d asked. “A marvelous actress, but taking to bed every rich noble who attends her performances? She’s a disgrace to her sex!”_

_Anthea looked at her father steadily. They were in her tiny dressing room, she shared it with two other girls (they had cleared out when Marquis Whittaker had come blustering in). “Do you think so little of me, father, that I care so little for myself?” she asked._

_He did not speak then, staring, bug-eyed at her._

_She stepped around him, opening the door behind him. “Thank you, for the visit, father, tell mother I am perfectly safe.”_

_“So you intend to go through with this?” he asked, clutching the brim of his hat, knuckles turning white. “Mark me, if you stay here, if you do not come home now, you shall be cut off, there will be no money from the family. Your dowry will be divided amongst your brothers.”_

_Anthea felt her heart drop. The dowry should have been hers. Legally it was hers, but she knew her father, and knew the power he had. He would arrange things so that she could not make a fuss about it. So she lifted her chin, looking him directly in the eye. “If that is how it must be, father.”_

_He was gob smacked. He had not thought she would stay. He’d hoped to frighten her. Instead when he’d pushed, she had pushed back._

_“Very well then.” With that, her father placed his hat on his head, bid her good day as if she were merely an acquaintance, and left._

That had been the worst day.

The next morning, one of her brothers called on her at the theater under an assumed name, handing her a book on botany. Inside it, tucked between every ten pages was a two or three one-hundred pound notes. He’d smuggled his portion of her dowry this way, firstly to slip it out of the house, and to prevent people in the theater from thinking that she was soliciting. He was the only one of her family to give her any money, but Anthea had the distinct feeling he was only there out of guilt. He did not visit again, and she did not try to contact him. The money allowed her to find a tiny garret room near the theater. Cold in the winter, stifling in the summer, window overlooking a dank alley that people emptied chamber pots into.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. Anthea was working with people who were kind to her, who liked her for who she was, who respected her for the choices she made. Her work was enjoyable, and she enjoyed the power she held over men. Not that she ever exercised that power. Perhaps some actors and actresses needed extra money, or they simply liked to be adored. Anthea had no desire to take after-show ‘clients’. She felt that actress and courtesan should not be synonymous.

That was the one barb of annoyance in her life. Gentlemen admirers loved to push backstage, thinking that if they came armed with a bottle of champagne and a bouquet of roses, they were entitled to dinner and a night of debauchery. Anthea would sweep by them, ignoring their calls, not taking a single bouquet or wrapped box. She ignored the blown kisses, obscene words and awful language of the drunk patrons, ignored the shyer, quieter, perhaps genuine gentlemen who simply desired her company. In truth, she did not want their company. Perhaps it would be nice to be wanted, but for how long? When a new actress or dancer or chorus girl caught their eye, she’d be tossed out just like all the others. So she worked on her craft, went to bed alone, refused offers of well-to-do lords and marquis and gentlemen who wanted to take her ‘under their wing’. Anthea knew well that wings could be clipped, and she made sure to clip theirs before they plucked hers. Offers were dissuaded, suggestions were ignored, flowers from anyone but her cast mates were placed outside her door for the cleaning woman.

Life was lonely, but at least she was independent. She was as free as a single woman in 1887 possibly could be.

Still, she did wish she had some purpose in her life. Not simply to put on farces for the public. Perhaps that made her a snob in her own profession, but her standards were all that she felt she truly had left of herself, and she would not give them up, not for any man.

That is until opening night of Undine, when a peculiar gentleman had managed to worm his way into her dressing room.

* * *

**Opening Night, Undine**

“Well done, ‘Thea!”

“Good on you!”

“Nicely done, ‘Thea!”

Anthea Whittaker smiled, thanking her fellow cast mates as she made her way backstage. Opening night of Fouqué’s _Undine_ was a fantastic success. Making her way through the backstage area, she thanked the stage manager as she passed him by.

“Anthea, wait a moment,” he caught her arm, drawing her away from the crush of people pushing backstage. “A man was looking for you,” he said.

Anthea groaned, rolling her eyes. “That’s all I need, a week before opening night,” she groused. “Can’t he be sent away?”

“I should like to very much,” the manager replied. “But he rather strong-armed me into it. Just meet with him and send him on his way, same as the rest.”

“This is insufferable!” Anthea blustered. “Thank you, Henry, goodnight.”

“Goodnight ‘Thea.”

Making her way through the crowd, ignoring the invitations to ‘dinner’, Anthea threw open the door to her private dressing room.

“Get. Out.”

The man raised an eyebrow, not looking at all disturbed at her fury.

“I am-“

“I don’t care who you are! You’ve got some nerve pushing in like this! Who do you think you are?”

“I don’t think, I know,” the man replied evenly, having the gall to look amused. “I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t take propositions, from anyone. If you’re that desperate, might I suggest the East End, I’m sure there’s a Madame there who can find you someone to bed. Goodnight.” She’d said all this with the door wide open. The crowd outside could see in, and hear every word spoken. The man, elegant in appearance (Anthea knew too well that looks hardly meant manners), stood slowly, setting his walking stick in the crook of his arm, and hat in hands. He bowed politely to her, and then left. She shut the door behind him, bolting it.

She changed quickly, wanting to leave while there was still a crowd of people. She had not thought she took very long, fifteen minutes at the most. There should have still been over thirty people still backstage. Instead, when she opened her dressing room door, she was shocked to see the backstage empty. The lamp by her door guttered and she felt a rush of air from the stage door.   
“Miss Whittaker.”

She turned with a start, seeing the lean shape of the man who had waited for her in her dressing room.

“You’ve no right to be here,” she called out, surprised at the strength in her voice.

“Miss Whittaker,” the man said, voice eerily calm. “I am not here to frighten you. I need to speak with you. It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“I don’t think sex is ever a matter of urgency,” she answered flatly.

The man turned bright red, coughing out of embarrassment. “Miss Whittaker, I am in earnest-“

“I am certain you are,” she said, marching past him. “You men always are at first.”

Stepping out onto the street, she could see (what she assumed was) his carriage waiting. She moved to the other side, raising her hand to flag down a cab instead. Thrice she tried and failed to call a cab.

The man stepped beside her, raising his arm, and the next cab that passed pulled to a stop. Anthea stared at him, confused. He simply took her hand, helped her up, and handed over to the driver enough for her fare.

“I hope to see you again, Miss Whittaker, under better circumstances.” The man tipped his hat, stepping aside so the cabbie could pull back out into traffic.

Anthea sat, dumbfounded. When he helped her up, he’d slipped his card into her gloved hand. By the time she realized this, it was too late to give it back.

From the flickering lights of the streetlamps they passed, she could just make out the name and address:

_Lord Mycroft Holmes_

_The Diogenes Club_

_10 Carleton House Terrace_

The nerve of him! Giving her the name of his club and where to reach him! It was fortunate that it was Sunday night. Anthea knew she should have simply torn up the card and not given in another thought, but this Mycroft Holmes was more than she could bear! If he could show up uninvited in her private room, then so she could do to him!

**Monday Morning**

Dressed in her best walking gown, Anthea made her way to The Diogenes Club. At the door there was an elderly man who smiled at her in greeting, and pointed to a sign at his elbow that read: _‘Please, No Talking’_.

Armed with this knowledge, she removed a pencil from her purse and wrote on the back of the card that Mr. Holmes had given her and handed it to the man.

The man took it, read it, glanced at her, then read it again. After a moment, he nodded, gesturing for her to follow him.

He led her upstairs, to a long, open corridor. At the far end was a set of double doors, to which the man produced a key. Above the door was a sign that read: _‘Strangers Room’._ Once the door was opened and she was inside, the man shut the door behind them, folding his hands behind his back.

“Lord Holmes is expecting you, you say?”

“Yes. He told me to come and wait here for him,” she said, setting her purse down. She pulled off her gloves as well, and took a chair by the desk, making it clear she would not leave.

“Very well, ma’am. I did not hear if he would be in today, but I shall be certain to send him directly up when he arrives.”

“Thank you,” Anthea nodded.

“I will send up tea,” the man said as he turned to leave. He shut the door without so much of a click, and Anthea was at last left alone. She sat patiently, and in a little while the man from the front desk returned with a tea tray, set it quietly on the table by her elbow, and then left her alone again.

After she’d finished a cup, she got to her feet, wandering to the bookcase, and selected a volume to peruse. She might as well do something with her time while she waited.

Two hours later, the door opened and she sat up, letting the book lie flat on her lap.

Mycroft Holmes blinked.

He was not expecting Anthea Whittaker to be in his private room at the Diogenes Club. Certainly not after her refusal of him the previous night. Still, she was here, and that was a promising start. He shut the door behind him.

“I see you kept my card, I am grateful,” he said, hanging his coat and hat on the rack by the door.

“You were bold enough to intrude upon my personal place, I thought it only fair to return the gesture.” She answered neatly.

He looked embarrassed then. “I am sorry,” he apologized, quite meekly. “I don’t…I’ve never done that sort of thing, wait backstage for anyone.”

“I can see that well enough,” she nodded, and she stood. “Well, now that I’ve indulged my petty side, I’ll leave you in peace-“

“No please,” he held up a hand for her to stay. “Please, just for a moment. I wish to explain myself.”

She raised an eyebrow, not sure there was anything to explain, but she sat down again. She hated herself for admiring him as he rounded the desk and sat before her. He was lithely built, handsome in appearance, and discreetly fashionable. She knew what a Saville row tailored suit looked like well enough.

“I did not know that the tailors of Gieves & Hawkes had taken to making suits for the common man these days,” she blurted out, and was instantly shocked at her boldness.

Mycroft Holmes looked at her in surprise, and then chuckled.

“I think that we both know I am hardly a common man, Miss Whittaker,” he replied smoothly. “Now, will you have more tea, or shall we get down the business at hand?”

“What business?” she asked warily.

Mycroft shifted uneasily in his chair, hands folded on the desk. “Miss Whittaker, I gather from last night, my intentions were misinterpreted by you.”

“I don’t see how,” she replied. “You were waiting in my dressing room.”

“I abhor crowds,” he excused. “Though looking back, I see now it was an invasion of privacy, and I do apologize. In my line of work, it is terribly easy for me to gain access anywhere, at any time.”

“Yes I thought as much,” Anthea nodded. She looked at her lap. “I should be flattered, having garnered your attention, but I’m afraid that I cannot comply to whatever it is you wish to…do with me.” She finally looked up at him. To her surprise, there was a flash of hurt in his eyes. In a moment, it was gone, and instead he waited for her to finish. “I don’t take clients, I don’t do ‘favors’, and I am no one’s companion,” she finally said, heart thudding in her chest. She’d never had to spell out just exactly what she was saying no to. It was much easier to ignore the shouting men, the ones who threw flowers at her, while insulting her by inviting her to a night of debauchery. She’d never once had to sit one of them down and explain that she was not comfortable living as anyone’s companion. “Perhaps that’s mad of me to say,” she continued. “Many girls in my place might snap you up the moment you appeared in their dressing room, lucky for the chance. I don’t see it as a fortunate happenstance.”

“No?” Mycroft couldn’t help but ask.

“Certainly not,” Anthea said, somewhat surprised at his ignorance, though it could not be blamed. Men often did not see past their own noses, but somehow she wanted to give Mycroft Holmes a little more credit. She felt as if he were clever enough to know. “A few months’ enjoyment, of a warm house, hot baths, good meals and lavish gifts would be enough to tempt many women, and I wish them well of it, but I pity them at the end of it. At the end of it, when the man tires of her, when he finds someone else, she’s back to stinking garrets and outdoor privies. All the expensive gifts are put into hock, and the eight coarse meals are little more than a reminder of what she can’t afford, and that she must have them again if she is to survive. Eventually, she holds her worth at only what man will take her to bed, how many gifts she can eke out of him before her time with him is up and she must go on to the next man. It doesn’t sound pleasant to me, and I should like to judge my worth myself, not by what men will buy for me, or how well they treat me.”

Mycroft Holmes regarded Anthea Whittaker with no small degree of respect. When he had called upon her the previous night, his intentions were to take her to dinner, and perhaps, if it went well, propose a courtship between them. He had not intended for her to presume that he was only looking for an out-of-wedlock companion.

He had watched her glittering acting career with great interest, ever since she debuted as ‘Pauline Deschapelles’ in ‘ _The Lady of Lyons’._ Ever since then, he had attended each of her shows several times. He learned that she had come from one of the better families in the country, in fact her father was a marquess! Yet Anthea Whittaker had chosen a life upon the stage (he was told out of sheer rebelliousness to her family). She was a spectacular actress, and Mycroft was thoroughly impressed by the fact that she had turned aside from the life her parents had laid out so carefully for her to forge her own way. It must have been a terrifying time for her, yet also liberating.

He was besotted.

He also realized he had gone about things in the worst possible way. Now she was sat in his private office in the Diogenes Club, explaining to him (in what was no doubt the kindest of ways) that she did not wish to live as a companion, not with him or any man. When at last she fell silent, he took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Miss Whittaker, I think you misunderstand my intentions," He said. “I admit my way of trying to meet you was rather shady, and I apologize. I sometimes forget that not everyone must be cornered for me to talk to them. I am not…romantic…at least I wasn’t. I am trying…” he rubbed his forehead, upset that he could practically lecture Queen Victoria on her son’s behavior but he could not bloody well form a complete sentence with Anthea Whittaker! “I want to court you,” he blurted out.

Anthea leaned back, surprised. “What?” Clearly she had not been expecting that.

“I want…I want to court you,” he repeated. He’d gotten his far, he may as well go the distance. “I am not promising marriage, because I should not like to force you into a position you are not happy with. I want to court you with the intent of marriage…but if things should not go well for us, I shan’t hold you to any understanding.”

“You want…to see if we are suitable for marriage.” She looked positively befuddled. “Mr. Holmes…I don’t know what you do for a living, I imagine a gentleman who’s suits are tailored at the same shop as the Royal Family’s must have much better prospects than an actress on the West End.”

“Probably,” Mycroft nodded. “But I don’t want them. I want you…that is- well-“ he colored modestly. “I don’t mean that…necessarily, not…until- well…hm. May I start over?”

She was trying desperately not to smile, and failing. “Please do.”

With that he stood, and came around the desk, taking the chair nearest her. “Miss Whittaker, I should be delighted if you would allow me the honor to escort you to luncheon today. I should like permission to court you, to see that you are indeed as brilliant as I believe you are.”

Anthea gave pause. “Lord Mycroft, I am not the characters I play on the stage.”

“I know that,” he answered, quite seriously. “I have heard a good deal about you, Miss Whittaker, and I believe the choices you have made, the decision to leave behind your parent’s way of life, the strength it took to become an actress, all while balancing your morals and lack of care for what people think of you,” he did not take her hand then, though he wanted to. “Miss Whittaker, I believe you are just the sort of woman I should like to know very much.”

Just short of a genuine confession of love to her, Anthea stared at Mycroft Holmes, quite touched by his fervor. She licked her lips, shifting slightly to face him. “Sir, you realize if a relationship does form between us, you will be the talk of London, and I doubt very much it will be to praise you on your choice of wife.”

“I have considered that,” he nodded. “I don’t care what London thinks, I rarely ever have. They’ll talk, it is true, for a little while, until the next political scandal comes up.”

“I don’t want to be a political scandal,” Anthea insisted.

“Nor will you,” he said firmly. “People _will_ talk, but we can dissuade that by choosing carefully where we make ourselves known. We dine publicly, in respectable establishments, we shan’t attend the opera or theater, and never alone. That is, if you agree.”

Anthea studied him carefully.

Lord Mycroft Holmes wanted to court her. He intended to marry her.

Good grief.

And to think she thought she’d be single all her life! She might be single yet, if things didn’t work out between them. Yet, having sat with Mycroft Holmes, having been able to speak frankly what she expected, what she refused to do, and what he wanted as well, she found she wanted very much to let him court her.

He sat, patiently waiting for her answer.

“Well then,” she lifted her eyes, the tiniest of smiles forming. “I should be delighted for you to take me to luncheon.”

He leapt to his feet, thrilled. Quickly, he sobered, smoothing down his coat. “Let me send a note,” he said. “Our luncheon companions won’t know where to meet us otherwise.”

Mycroft had written to Doctor John Watson and his wife, deciding they would be a safer choice than his brother. Watson would know how to steer the conversation, and his wife would give Miss Whittaker someone to converse with and find common ground on. Perhaps when things were a bit more settled, Mycroft would introduce her to his brother. Still, courtship with Anthea Whittaker would not be easy, and he would see to it that if there was any gossip about them, it would be the barest of facts, with which no one could truly find fault in.

In six months’ time, Mycroft was pleased to announce his engagement to former stage actress Anthea Whittaker, who would give her final performance before taking up her duties as lady of the stately Holmes Manor in York. She was sad to leave the stage, but pleased at her new role in life, that of being the wife of Mycroft Holmes. Indeed, she had won the most sought after man in society with no dowry, no title, no family approval. Upon her merit alone was her successful match made. Better than that, though, was the love that Mycroft and Anthea had for each other. Many scoffed that it would not last, that the match would sour quickly, as these things often did. They were, of course, unequivocally wrong. Mycroft had chosen his bride well. He had known within weeks of courting Anthea that she was his match, and happily (albeit impatiently) waited for an appropriate amount of time to pass before he could propose marriage to her. Anthea had had six months to come to know Mycroft. She’d learned that despite his cool exterior, despite his very secret work for the Queen and royal family, he was in possession of a heart, and he was in earnest to prove to her that it was entirely in her hands. Anthea did not know how she had ever earned such an honor, but she was all too happy to show him that his heart was perfectly safe with her, as she knew hers was with him.


End file.
